


Scars

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 2000 Words, F/M, Kinda EWE, One Shot, Oral Sex, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7239184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much your standard Dramione fare: much debating leads to sexy times, but what about the past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

Celebrations had been going on for hours; the dinner to mark the successful bust of the largest Golden Snidget smuggling ring in Ministry’s four hundred or so years had long finished and even the most hardened firewhisky drinkers had downed their glasses in defeat and headed home; all except two. 

Malfoy and Granger were debating, they had been debating since they sat down, (although if you’d asked anyone who knew them, you’d be told they’d been debating since they were eleven years old, at least now it’s rare that anyone gets slapped). They debated their way through five delectable courses, through coffee, after dinner mints and their colleagues’ butterbeer nightcaps; they debated as the rest of their table made their way home, as the restaurant emptied and as the floor was swept around them. Eventually the waiter who’d drawn the short straw interrupted their flow to ask them, politely, to leave; _while the establishment appreciated their patronage and understood that Mr Malfoy could buy the restaurant and its staff several times over, he, personally, hoped they would understand that the kitchen elves had been working since before sunrise and had been stuck in the hot, steamy kitchen for far longer than would be considered acceptable and, Ms Granger, won’t someone think of the elves?_

The debate continued as they left the restaurant; the juxtaposition of the still night animating them all the more. When they reached her flat, she twisted the muggle key in the lock, whispered the counter charm to break the ward and walked straight in, barely stopping for breath. Draco paused on the doorstep, she hadn’t invited him in, but she hadn’t not invited him and he could still hear her waxing lyrical on the benefits of skin from freerange Boomslangs rather than the now-common factory-bred snakes as she headed inside. He wasn’t going to let his impeccable manners or her mostly-muggle front door stop him from pointing out exactly how wrong she was.

The clattering of mugs from her kitchen wasn’t enough to drown out her monologue, but provided just enough noise to stop her from hearing the hiss he directed at the ginger kneazle on the sofa, _Crawford, Crowley_ , something like that, he thought. Crookshanks thought about as highly of this human-sized ferret and returned the hiss, stretching out languidly over even more of the sofa.

Hermione re-appeared floating a steaming coffee pot, a pair of mugs, and a bottle of Ogden’s finest; she clicked her tongue at Crookshanks who instantly slunk off the sofa to his own bed in the corner of the room. Draco dropped into the vacated seat consciously trying to seem like he’d not been bothered by his near defeat at the hands of the Weasley-coloured mongrel. She sat down on the other end of the sofa, curled her legs up underneath her, poured the coffee and took a sip. In that briefest moment of silence, he picked up where she left off countering her every argument. She poured a slug of firewhisky into each of their coffees as the debate continued unabashed.

As Draco addressed what he felt was a particularly pertinent point, Hermione’s fingers brushed against his while she refilled his mug. She held them there longer than strictly necessary for an _’accidental’_ brushing and the almost electric feeling was enough for Draco’s stomach to flip and his arguments to fly clean out of his head. He saw the laugh dance across her brown eyes before it had the chance to escape her lips and with Seeker’s speed he pressed his lips to her’s, capturing her laugh.

The kiss was gentle, her lips warm and full against his, and almost immediately he began to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this and how this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done and how would he be able to get out of this with any of his dignity intact and how he’d never win another argument with her ever again and how she was kissing him back. She was kissing him back, parting her lips and twisting her fingers in his hair.

He pulled out of the kiss, “Granger,” he looked straight into her eyes, “how much have you had to drink?”

“Just the one,” her eyes flicked to her half-empty coffee mug on the table, “you?”

“Clear as a bell in here,” he tapped his temple.

She took his mug from his hand and placed it next to her’s on the table before leaning in to pick up where they left off.

* * *

“This isn’t working,” Hermione stopped midway through the trail of kisses she was placing along Draco’s jaw line.

“What isn’t?” she demanded, “from where I’m sitting,” she ground her hips into his crotch for emphasis, “it certainly is”.

“Granger, you have nearly rolled us off this narrow sofa, not once but thrice; I seem to have developed a crick in my neck due to your lack of cushions and that damnable cat hasn’t stopped staring at us since you straddled-”

“Bedroom,” she interrupted. She barely heard him mumble about hearing no arguments from him as she led him down the hall.

The door had only just closed when she already had his shirt untucked and had begun working on the buttons, “Granger,” he whispered, grabbing her wrists, “Herm-” so soft he trailed off before the final syllables, “I, erm,” he stumbled over his words in the most un-Malfoy-like manner.

“Are you a…? Is this your first…?”

A slight smile crossed his lips, he shook his head and loosened his grip on her wrists, “No. It’s just…” he paused and took a deep breath. “I have scars”.

She looked up into his eyes and without looking away, undid another button, “I don’t care about your scars.”

He didn’t need to say anything, his eyes said it all, _I do_.

Her voice - her authoritative, you-will-do-as-you’re-told voice - rang out clear in the silent room, “Nox."

The room fell pitch black and with clumsy hands and lips they found each other again, “wandless magic, impressive Granger,” he whispered into her ear, as he pulled her blouse from her skirt and slid his long fingers over her taut stomach.

She finished unbuttoning his shirt and slid it off his shoulders, in her haste she brushed over his chest with the lightest of touches and he froze momentarily, she mouthed a _sorry_ into his lips and threw his shirt behind her onto the bed.

His hands continued their journey upwards under her blouse, where he expected to find the lacy cup of her bra - or, at the very least, the practical cotton of her bra - he found nothing but bare skin. She felt him break into a smile, “Granger, you minx,” he quickly unbuttoned her blouse, but before he could get it off her shoulders she was already tugging at his belt.

Trousers, skirt and underwear were quickly abandoned and in the complete darkness of the room, she guided him over to the bed. She lay down and pulled him to climb on top, which he did, holding himself high on all fours above her. She arched up to kiss him, missing his lips the first, second time, but third time’s a charm. He pushed into her and she fell flat on the bed. 

He kissed around her jawline and down her neck, from her sternum to her stomach then doubled back and kissed his way up to her breasts. He gently cupped one breast while he kissed up to the peak of the other then darted his tongue out, flicking her already hard nipple. He sucked the nipple into his mouth and ran his tongue around it then bit it gently as he pinched the other. 

Hermione gasped, then let out a little growl of delight. 

He squeezed harder.

Her hips bucked distracting him from his task at hand, he slid his hands down her sides and followed with a line of kisses down her stomach and across her belly button. His fingers skimmed over the top of her legs and settled lightly on the tender skin of her inner thighs. His kisses stopped and he looked up, but unable to see her face clearly in the dark.

“Granger?” he asked. 

“Don’t stop.”

With the permission he needed, wanted, he continued the trail of kisses over her mound while his fingers moved north, meeting in her warm, wet centre.

* * *

The morning light streamed through the edges of the curtains giving the whole room a heavenly glow; Draco lay with his arm tucked under the pillow and bed sheets high on his chest watching Hermione next to him, rousing. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she agreed, sleepily.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong but I seem to recall you being considerably more naked when we fell asleep last night. And this, I believe,” he rubbed the upturned collar of the shirt she was wearing, “is mine.”

“I was cold, and it was nearer than mine.”

“Suits you better anyway,” he decided as he tugged the collar down. It bared her shoulder and the silver spider’s web of scars which radiated from a welt in the centre of her clavicle; he stared slightly longer than was polite. 

“Dolohov,” she confirmed. “You’re not the only one with scars, Draco,” he kissed the top of her head. “It’s not the worst,” she added, almost imperceptibly under her breath.

He let the bed sheets slide down his chest revealing cross-hatched scars covering most of his chest. “Potter."

“Draco, I’m sor-” he cut her off with his fingers pressed to her lips.

“You don’t apologise for him,” she nodded in understanding. He looked down at his chest, “it’s not the worst.” He sat up, and using both arms pulled Hermione up to sit facing him. She glanced at his left arm, and looked away just as quickly when she caught what she was doing. “It’s okay,” he whispered and turned his arm over to let her see it more clearly, “I think this one goes without saying.” The Dark Mark had faded, no longer an ebony black, it was shiny and rough, like a burn that had never - and would never - fully heal. 

She gently, experimentally, touched the cool, pale skin around it. “It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt,” she took that as permission and slowly, lightly, traced the outline with her index finger. As her finger moved over his arm, the cuff of his shirt sleeve tickled his wrist and with his free hand he began to fold it back up her arm. One fold, two folds, then a memory flashed and his stomach sank. He cursed himself for having taken so long to realise it, to realise what her worst scar was.

Her fingers continued their tracing but her eyes were looking for his. She knew he knew, she found his eyes and could see tears begin to swell in the corners of his gray pools. She stopped tracing and slid her hand down to his, intertwined their fingers and squeezed lightly.

Without looking away he folded the sleeve back further, she didn’t say stop, her eyes betrayed nothing, but she bit her bottom lip nervously. Once the sleeve was rolled up to her shoulder he took her hand and, as she had done with him, intertwined their fingers and gave a reassuring squeeze.

She gave him a tiny nod, but he didn't look away, “it’s okay,” she said, in a voice softer than he’d ever heard from her. 

The slur carved into her arm had scarred to an angry purplish-red. Other scars faded to a silver, not this one, no one knew why.

Draco felt an involuntary gasp and a tear threatened to roll down his cheek, “My au-”

“Bellatrix,” Hermione interrupted firmly, then softer, “not _your_ anything.”

“Sor-”

“You don’t apologise for her,” she leant forward and kissed him gently on the lips, “but I do need to show my gratitude for last night,” she continued as she pushed him flat onto his back.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
